


counting bodies like sheep

by charleybradburies



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Community: 1_million_words, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Free Verse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Multi-Era, Other, POV First Person, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am trying to be easier to love. It is not my fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	counting bodies like sheep

the tally marks on the wall stopped  
when I was six  
and we moved -   
Five hundred and thirty-nine miles away.  
I sat in the backseat  
of my mother’s red Dodge van  
and tried to count  
each one,  
just waiting impatiently for a place  
to call home.

numbered grades came into  
the picture at eight,  
percentages by which   
success could be  
objectively measured - because  
they _were_ an objective measure,   
right?

I was ten when _he_   
(thirteen and a half)  
asked if he could carry my backpack   
up our street for me.  
always little for my age, but still  
a big girl who didn’t need  
his help. help  
that he wasn’t offering.  
he ran off with my backpack and  
later,   
my innocence.

it wasn’t the last thing she did,  
but by the time I turned eleven  
my grandmother convinced me  
to count my sins.  
the nuns and their rulers  
at school  
were in support  
of that, but even I   
couldn’t count   
that high.

by thirteen,  
I was counting calories  
in a polo shirt, a plaid skirt   
whose hem was required to be   
no farther than the height  
of a can of Diet Coke   
from my knee, and navy tights  
without runs.

years later, I’m busy  
just trying to count  
my scars,  
the rope burn around   
my neck tying me to  
self-destruction like a moth  
at a bonfire.

did God put the Devil in me,  
or am I only drowning?  
I just know that   
I’m still holding my breath,  
but my skin  
is a two-way street and  
I don’t know inside   
from out.


End file.
